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Just a little bit, background I could say, but more like ‘can’t fit it in anywhere’…. the trials of being a writer…
Nothing: Storage
~by nom~
He likes to box me. Not box as in punching, although he likes that too, but box as in containment. He likes his space, his privacy, and even though I’m silent or gagged, he sometimes finds my presence too much.
When we were in the apartment, he used to just pop me in the trunk at the foot of the bed. It was big enough to lie in a foetal position, or to scrunch down on my knees, or lie on my back with my kness to my chest – but whatever position it was, I had to stay put because it only took one sound to get him enraged. I’m a submissive, and so masochistic to some extent, but the punishment he deals out when he’s truly enraged, as opposed to sexually motivated rage, is something I try hard to avoid. Broken bones are often one of the end results, and I’m not enough of a painslut to find them arousing.
I liked it, at first. It was like a safe haven, a place where if I stayed very quiet, I’d be left in peace. Our relationship is very intense, and very hard on my body, and it doesn’t take a genius to figure out that I need recovery time now and then.
However, the periods of time that he left me in there became longer and longer, and then he began putting me in some form of bondage. It wasn’t enough to simply put me in and lock the trunk. Now, the bare minimum would be cuffed hands and tied feet, dildo gag and ear plugs, and the full treatment would be a strict hogtie, tits tightly bound, dildos in all my holes, earplugs and a full hood which blinded me and restricted my breathing.
There’s not much to see in a dark trunk, but somehow being blindfolded made me uneasy. Aas did being deaf. I’d never realised how much sounds comforted me until I was without them. I started thinking about how if I had a health problem, or vomited, I’d probably die. He’d never know, might even take him a whole day before he opened the trunk and found me dead. I might have discovered a whole new desire to be snuffed, but I’d seen it as something years in the future, if ever. I didn’t really want to die, especially not now when I’d just found him.
And what if something happened to him? Some of his friends knew he had me, so they might come looking, but if they didn’t know anything was wrong with him either, then I was in trouble. Or what if he went out and there was a fire?
So before too long after he’d first started storing me away in the trunk, I developed claustrophobia. He knew I didn’t like it, that I was afraid of being boxed, and that pleased him even more and he found more ways to store me. In the basement now, there’s a selection that would make bdsm shops envious. There are boxes of varying shapes and sizes, made of wood, metal, plastic. There are transparent ones for when he wants to see me, which is always the case when the boxing is for something other than storage. Like breathplay.
There are coffins, an iron maiden, cages, dog carriers, bodybags and suitcases.
There are holes in the floor, some deep pits, some shallow, some big enough only for one, others for more, with iron lids that can be solid or a grill depending on his mood. Their moods. His friends come over often, usually bringing their own cunts.
There are slots in the walls, just like in a morgue complete with the stainless steel doors and sliding trays, except the height is about halved. It’s tighter than in a coffin, and colder, and talking of cold, there’s a walk-in freezer too with meat hooks from which meat hangs, including live cunt.
But back when we lived in the apartment, there was no space for even a fraction of these things, so my husband made do with what was already there – suitcases, cupboards, closets. And on some, thankfully few, occasions, the refrigerator.
Now, upstairs in the house, there’s a chest in the sun lounge. It’s a nicely carved wooden coffee table on the outside, but a place for me inside. It’s a tight fit. Many times when my husband entertains polite, vanilla company, I’m in there with none of them the wiser. The old trunk is also still around, at the foot of the bed in the master bedroom. And in his study, it’s the window seat.
He usually plugs me, keep the mess to a minimum, except when he wants mess. It’s disgusting, but it makes me hot – not surprising considering the extreme degradation of it and I am, after all, when stripped of everything else, a humiliation slut to the core, in the core. I lie in piss and shit and come, I drink his piss and come, eat his shit and come. He watches it all, fascinated, disgusted, hard – shaking his head sometimes, unable to understand how someone can sink so low.
Understandable then, that he has stopped thinking of me as a thinking human being. Talks to me less and less, not even to give me orders. I’m hooded most times, blind and deaf and mute, taken out of storage to be used, put back away when he’s done. I don’t think I’ll last much longer. I’ve lost track of time, but I know it’s been a satisfying few years. When I can see, my body is an emaciated mess, scarred and ugly. I have no regrets, only except for wishing to give him more. He’s been so good to me, I can’t repay him enough. He deserves more, everything.
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Come chat to me. Am currently unemployed, and frisky (in case you couldn’t tell), so I have all the time in the world to have deep and porny perverted discussions… y_dee_x@yahoo.co.uk
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